Today I Went Back to the 1980s and Here's What Happened.
Last night, at about 9pm, the internet went down across a large area where I live.
About twenty minutes later, my phone decided to join in.
Not in a dramatic way. No sparks. No warning. It simply packed up, gave up the ghost and died. Permanently, as it turned out.
Within half an hour I found myself in a situation that would have been entirely normal in 1985 and mildly alarming in 2026.
I had no internet.
No phone.
No podcasts.
No news.
No social media.
No messages.
No emails.
No films.
No music streaming.
No endless ability to Google every passing thought that drifted through my mind.
Nothing.
I was tired and wasn't really in the mood to read, so I thought I'd just go to bed.
At first, that sounds wonderfully wholesome.
In reality, it was quite strange.
I lay there and realised something I haven't experienced properly for a very long time.
Space.
Not physical space.
Mental space.
Normally there is always something available. A podcast. A meditation. A YouTube video. An audiobook. A film. A quick scroll. A little check of messages. Some harmless browsing before sleep.
Last night there was none of it.
Just me and my thoughts.
Part of me loved it.
Part of me found it oddly discombobulating.
It felt as though somebody had removed all the furniture from a room and suddenly I could see how large it really was.
My mind had room to expand.
I could think.
I could daydream.
I could follow a thought wherever it wanted to go.
I slept eventually, although not in the way I normally do. The night seemed to happen in chapters. I drifted in and out. I dreamed. I woke. I felt restless at times.
I hadn't had coffee.
I hadn't had alcohol.
I'd exercised that day.
There was no obvious reason for the fragmented sleep.
I wonder now whether I was simply experiencing something unusual.
Silence.
Real silence.
The next morning brought another challenge.
I still had no internet.
I still had no phone.
And I had a full day to navigate.
Normally, before I've even got out of bed, I've checked something. Emails. Messages. The weather. The news. Something.
Instead, I woke up, looked around and thought, "Well, I might as well get up then."
So I did.
I got dressed and headed to a local hotel that I knew had internet access.
I walked in, explained my predicament and was offered a free cup of tea. “Close the windows if you get cold” she said. “If you need anything, let me know”.
Already the day felt different.
Less efficient perhaps.
But somehow more human.
I sat there, logged on, caught up with the essentials and contacted a client. We'd arranged a walk and talk session but the weather was dreadful and I wasn't sure whether they'd still want to meet.
After some messages we agreed we'd brave the rain and meet anyway.
Job done.
As the day went on, I noticed something even stranger.
I started questioning things I would never normally question.
At one point I found myself thinking, Can I cook?
After a brief pause, I answered my own question.
Yes of course you can!
I've been cooking for decades. The internet is entirely optional in this process. Although I do often use the internet for recipes.
A little later another thought appeared.
Can I go to the toilet?
Again, after careful consideration, I concluded that yes, remarkably, this too could be achieved without either the internet or my phone.
It sounds ridiculous when written down, but it genuinely made me realise how much these things have become woven into the background of everyday life. Not because we necessarily need them, but because we've become so accustomed to reaching for them automatically.
In fact, at one point I found myself reading a Wildlife Trust magazine while sitting in the smallest room of the house.
Now there's a sentence I never expected to write.
But honestly, when was the last time you read anything in there that wasn't on a screen?
Perhaps that's too much information.
Perhaps it's an important cultural observation.
I'll let you decide.
Then it was off to a GP appointment.
And this is where things became really interesting.
I sat in the waiting room.
No phone.
No scrolling.
No checking.
No pretending to be busy.
No accidental disappearance into the internet.
So I looked around.
Actually looked around.
I noticed the television screen displaying local adverts, health services, community events and local businesses.
And then a thought occurred to me.
If I'd had my phone, I wouldn't have seen any of it.
I wouldn't have noticed.
I certainly wouldn't have realised there might be an opportunity to advertise my own business there.
So I walked over to reception and asked.
"Possibly," they said. "Just send us an email."
An opportunity appeared entirely because I wasn't staring at a screen.
That happened several times throughout the day.
I realised that when I wasn't connected to my phone, I was connected to my environment.
Not in a mystical way.
Just in a practical one.
I noticed things.
People.
Conversations.
Ideas.
Possibilities.
I already spend a lot of time observing nature and people, but this felt deeper somehow.
My attention wasn't being divided.
On the drive that morning, the radio played Highway to the Danger Zone.
An excellent choice from the universe.
Apart from being a brilliant song, it also felt strangely fitting.
Because for a few hours I really was operating in the 1980s. All Top Guns blazing on strategising where my next workstation would be.
We rely on the internet for almost everything now.
Work.
Communication.
Navigation.
Learning.
Entertainment.
And much of that is genuinely wonderful.
But there is another side to it.
The constant checking.
The constant availability and connection.
The constant possibility that somewhere, somehow, there is something else you could be looking at right now.
After my GP appointment, I headed home for lunch.
Then the heavens opened.
My walk and talk client was still planning to meet, but I wasn't entirely sure.
So I went to a pub, popped inside and asked whether I could quickly borrow their internet connection.
Again, people were kind.
Again, things worked out.
Again, the world felt human - dependence at its best.
My client still wanted to meet.
So off I went.
I arrived early.
Normally I might have filled those spare last minutes checking emails or replying to messages.
Instead, I simply sat there.
Waiting.
Being present.
Watching rain trickle down the windscreen.
And suddenly I was transported back decades.
I remembered being a child in the back of the family car on holidays, driving to the coast.
No devices.
No screens.
Just watching raindrops race each other down the window.
Finding shapes in clouds.
Getting lost in thought.
Waiting.
We used to do a load of waiting.
And perhaps a load more thinking.
The walk itself was excellent. A chilly mix of wind and rain and I felt there was a flow to my step….not a sudden surge after a submergence online.
Afterwards I had an online client to see, which required a bit of creativity because home still wasn't an option.
I found a quiet private place where I could work confidentially and safely.
And by about half past three I started wondering whether the internet might be back.
I somewhat reluctantly got back into my car and drove.
When I arrived home, it was.
Everything sprang back into life.
The modern world returned, along with emails, notifications, passwords, updates and all the other digital wildlife that now inhabits our lives.
And honestly, I was pleased to see it.
I like the internet.
I like technology.
I like being able to find the answer to almost any question within seconds.
But for one unexpected day, I was reminded that there is another way to exist.
A slower way.
A quieter way.
A way where thoughts are allowed to wander without immediately being interrupted by somebody else's thoughts and headlines aren’t jammed in your face.
A way where rain running down a car window can still be entertainment.
A way where a waiting room becomes a place to notice opportunities.
A way where the mind gets a little breathing space.
It wasn't better than modern life.
But it wasn't worse either.
It was simply different.
And perhaps that's what made it so valuable.
What struck me most wasn't how much I missed the internet.
It was how quickly I stopped missing it.
By the end of the day I wasn't reaching for my phone every few minutes. I wasn't wondering what was happening online. I wasn't checking messages or emails or headlines.
I was simply where I was.
Doing the thing I was doing.
And there was something surprisingly peaceful about that.
Now, don't get me wrong. I'm very happy to be back in 2026.
I need the internet.
My work relies on it.
And replacing a dead phone isn't quite as exciting as a trip through time in a DeLorean.
But the experience has given me something unexpected.
A question.
What would happen if I deliberately created some of that space?
What if I didn't look at my phone right up until I fell asleep?
What if I didn't reach for it the moment I opened my eyes?
What if I allowed myself a few pockets of analogue living inside a very digital world?
Because somewhere between the outage and the replacement phone, I accidentally spent a day in the 1980s.
Which brings me to one of my favourite films, Back to the Future.
There's a scene where somebody asks Marty McFly why he's wearing a life jacket.
He's not, of course.
He's wearing a body warmer.
But the question feels oddly fitting.
Because for a few hours I found myself without the digital life jacket I've become used to carrying everywhere.
No instant answers.
No constant connection.
No safety net of endless information.
And instead of sinking, I discovered something unexpected.
I was floating just fine.
In fact, I might even have ended up swimming with dolphins.
And if Doc Brown ever turns up outside my house in a DeLorean and offers me another day back in the 1980s, I think I might just take him up on it.
Although next time, I might keep hold of my phone.
